


Chai and Bruises

by coyotecorpse



Series: Tea and Us (mystrade universe) [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt, Established Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Healing, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mycroft is a Softie, Mycroft loves Greg so much, Past Child Abuse, Period-Typical Homophobia, Physical Abuse, Popsicles, greg's little sister
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-29
Updated: 2020-12-29
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:53:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28405824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coyotecorpse/pseuds/coyotecorpse
Summary: His father leaves him laying in the dirt, worthless and dirty. Bent. Greg decides then that a crush isn’t worth it. It’s not worth the tears streaming down his baby sister’s face. It’s not worth the broken tooth laying in the grass. It’s not worth the blood in his mouth.It is definitely not worth the broken ribs and the black eye.“If you ever embarrass me like this again, I won’t have a son anymore.”Greg has never been afraid of dying before.He learned what real fear felt like that sweltering day in June.
Relationships: Greg Lestrade/Original Female Character, Greg Lestrade/Original Male Character, Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Series: Tea and Us (mystrade universe) [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2059128
Comments: 3
Kudos: 64





	Chai and Bruises

**Author's Note:**

> tw: child abuse, violent behavior, homophobia. Please read the tags on this one.
> 
> this happens before oolong and bedsheets which is why Lady doesn't make an appearance.

Greg’s childhood is a vague blur of violence and harsh words. He can’t remember it clearly, just flashes of newspaper clippings without any context. Some memories are easy to grasp. He can remember playing rugby with his mates. He can remember the day his sister was born. Those memories bring back feelings of happiness, remind him of all the warm smiles and loud jokes that surrounded him.

Some memories are within arms reach but hurt too much to grab. He can remember the day his mother left. He can remember his sister’s shouting and the hatred in her voice. He  _ can _ remember these things, but he doesn’t want to so he ignores them. He buries them in the dirt outside and does his best to forget where he left them.

The grass doesn’t grow over his past mistakes. He pretends he doesn’t notice the bare patches.

Most of his childhood memories are out of his reach. He can remember them in an abstract sense. He knows he had a 14th birthday party. He knows he never had a birthday party after that. He’s smart enough to understand that something happened between those two facts that caused him to hate celebrating. He knows his father was an angry man. He knows that Jack Mcgregor never spoke to him after that.

He knows if he takes out his shovel and digs, he’ll find something to explain it all. He also knows that some things are better left buried.

When Mycroft talks about his childhood, it feels like a flash flood behind his eyes. Mudslides and dirty water rush around his skull and unbury some boxes he’s almost forgotten about. The garden of his mind becomes a mess. The dirt overturns and no matter how hard he tries he can't get all the boxes buried.

Sometimes he just leaves them above ground and doesn’t touch them. Opening the boxes only leads to pain, and he knows this.

Experience is a brutal teacher.

His father was too.

He picks up his shovel and starts to dig. He doesn’t want to think about his father. He doesn’t want to remember the lessons he learned.

Mycroft tells the stories of his childhood without any hesitation. He shares the neglect of his mother and the violence of his brother easily. Greg loves to hear him talk, loves to learn and comfort him. He loves the way Mycroft’s mouth forms words and he loves the way his posh accent changes the tone of a story.

He doesn’t love the way every word feels like a garden spade to the brain.

Jack Mcgregor haunts him some nights. Myc talks about his past lovers distantly like you’d talk about an old teacher or a long forgotten friend. He doesn’t sound attached. In all honesty, he sounds a little bored when he mentions them. Never by name like he’s forgotten them almost entirely or like he never got to know their name in the first place.

Greg doesn’t mention his exes. Catherine had cheated and lied and over all screwed him over. She isn’t really worth mentioning and Mycroft doesn’t seem to mind. When she is mentioned, Mycroft crinkles his noses in disgust.

It’s endearing.

Until it reminds him of Jack.

Jack had soft red curls and freckles across his nose. He was an Irish kid, accent strong and sweet. Jack had scrunched his nose up when he laughed. Jack had grinned so wide it must have made his cheeks hurt.

Jack stopped smiling that late June day all those years ago.

Greg stopped seeing Jack that day too.

Mycroft’s mock disgust becomes less endearing and the mulch of his mind is caked under his nails. He isn’t sure what happened that night. He  _ won’t  _ remember what he did. All he knows is it hurts to think about, that the box is wrapped with barbed wire, that every gentle touch rips his palms apart.

Blood mixes with mud and Greg tries not to make a face. Mycroft is smiling at him, a sweet and genuine smile. Mycroft has soft auburn hair. Mycroft has little freckles across his nose.

Greg has a type when it comes to men.

The sun is shining through the window, bright and summery. London is always so rainy. It’s a welcome change. He stretches up and smiles when Mycroft’s eyes linger on the little patch skin that peeks out from under his shirt. Mycroft blushes and like a cat basking in the sun Greg is at peace. Greg feels good and warm and loved.

Greg thinks about how warm it had been that day in June. The peaceful feeling dissipates and he tries to hide it. He smirks at his lover and pretends he isn’t struggling to bury any memories of an almost something.

He was 14. It wouldn’t have lasted. It never could have lasted.

Blood stains the dirt and his jaw aches.

It never got the chance to last.  _ They _ never got the chance.

“We should order in tonight. Maybe thai?” He keeps his voice level, playful and kind. Mycroft shoots him a small worried look but smiles nonetheless. He’s gotten so good at real interactions and not just mimicking people. He’s become his own person and not just a mirror for those around him. Greg smiles a real smile and Mycroft nods.

The dirt is level now and the shovel doesn’t feel so heavy in his hands. They’ve grown so much together. His past doesn’t matter here, not with his darling Mycroft.

“My mother only hit me once. After Sherlock first got caught with drugs. I always knew she hated me but it cemented it for me. I knew I couldn't ever go home again. I wasn’t welcome there.”

It’s a quiet whisper in the darkness of the bedroom. A confession to the stars and Greg’s half asleep form. Mycroft talks about his home life a lot more around the holidays. Christmas seems to be a sore subject for him the way birthdays are a sore subject for Greg.

He doesn’t mind the honesty. He likes that Mycroft feels comfortable enough to talk to him about that kind of stuff. He feels a little guilty about not returning the favor.

He doesn’t want to go through the effort of digging up the right memory for the occasion. He doesn’t want to take the chance of uncovering something he isn’t ready to face.

“I’m sorry she blamed you for Sherlock’s mistakes.”

Slender fingers dance across his naked hip, dipping down to his stomach before resting there. Warmth spreads where their skin touches and Greg leans back into the feeling. Chest to back they lay there in silence. It hangs in the air while they drift off together.

It feels like a sleepover from his youth. He tries not to think about the implications of that thought. He tries not to remember what happened at that sleepover.

Greg struggles to sleep that night. It must have happened before he turned 14.

June had been really hot that year. Greg had spent most of his time by the river, desperate to cool off. Cherry flavored sugar dripped down his lips, staining them a joyful red. The iciness of a popsicle met with the sweltering heat of the stagnant air and melted perfectly together in Greg’s hands.

He’s about to turn 14. His limbs are a little too long for his body. He hasn’t quite grown into his features. 

The warm sun tans his skin and his friend splashes some water at him, giggling without a care in the world. His sister has her toes in the water. Her sundress is a coral pink and her cheeks glow with the hint of a sunburn.

They’re all so happy. Greg feels so alive. He hasn’t felt this way since he mother left a few years ago, disappearing out the door to live her own life without him in it.

His sister isn’t looking, chocolate brown eyes locked with the water. It’s flowing smoothly over her feet, lapping up the sides of her skinny legs. She’s staring at it with a look that screams peacefulness. Greg is giving Jack that same look, trying not to stare too long at his lips. They’re stained purple, grape sugar swirling around his tongue and dripping down his chin.

It’s innocent. It’s peaceful. They are so young. Greg is so free.

Greg reaches out and swipes his thumb gently over his best friend’s plush lips. The sweet purple liquid gathers on the tip of his finger, but before he can pull his hand away in embarrassment, Jack’s tongue peeks out and laps up the extra bit of sweetness.

He flushes a beautiful pink, sun tanned and gorgeous. Jack just grins, laughing like it’s some big joke. And Greg laughs too because if Jack is okay with it then how can it be so bad.

What’s wrong with goofing around with a friend during summer break?

Jack says something about Greg being such a mother but his accent is thick with laughter and nearly incomprehensible. Greg just laughs and licks his own popsicle.

He wonders briefly if Jack’s lips taste like grapes. He wonders how the cherry and grape would mix. It’d probably be delicious. It’d taste like summer and laughter and Jack’s sweet grin.

He knows that boys don’t usually kiss other boys. He knows better than to do it here out in the public with his sister glancing back at the noise. He knows that he shouldn’t want to do it in the first place.

Jack throws a pebble at his sister. It doesn’t even make impact but she still huffs like the priss she is. And Jack laughs, loud and fearless.

The sun beams down and the flowing water sings a soft song, and Jack is laughing. Jack is laughing and Greg can’t find it in him to feel ashamed. Who wouldn’t want to kiss a boy like Jack? A boy with soft skin and a gentle touch and the sweetest smile in the world. A boy with grape lips and a laugh that makes the whole world seem brighter.

Greg tosses a pebble at Maggie too just to hear that laugh again.

Jack has never denied him anything.

He turns 14 in a week and Greg can’t wait. He can’t wait to eat popsicles in the backyard and rough house and laugh. He can’t wait to show Jack the pink flowers that bloom in the small patch of grass every year. He can’t wait to tell him that the small flecks of white on the petals remind him of his freckles.

Any other boy would laugh at Greg then, would shove him and call him a fairy.

Jack will smile his big beautiful smile with his cute gap teeth. Jack will tell Greg he’s adorable, giggle out something about how the pink reminds him of Greg’s charming blush.

Greg finishes his popsicle and flicks the stick at Jack’s head. Jack feigns death and flops over into the gravel. Maggie laughs and splashes him with some water. Jack just groans and flops like a fish before letting out his final breath, gasping dramatically up at the blue sky.

He’s got a little sunburn across his nose and his eyes are clenched tight to protect him from the light.

Greg smiles, teeth stained red and brown eyes twinkling. He thinks this might be what a crush feels like. He’s pretty sure he likes it.

Greg wakes up covered in dirt, sweaty and out of breath like he just ran a marathon. Mycroft is stroking his forehead and telling him to breathe. He feels like he just had a nightmare. He’s pretty sure he didn’t. He can’t quite remember, shovel in hand.

He remembers the sunlight and the taste of cherry popsicles.

“Breath in for me, love. A nice deep breath.” Mycroft's voice is thick with sleep and his eyes are wide with concern.

The moon shines through the bedroom window, filtered by the curtains and highlighting Mycroft’s sharp cheekbones. It’s a nice blue color like flowing water or the summer sky. Greg shudders a breath.

Mycroft’s fingers splay gently over the nape of his neck, combing through the short grey hairs there. It’s a soft comfort, saccharine and far too much. He’s got bedhead and the sheets are barely covering his waist. It’s a sight to behold; it’s angelic.

“Hey, baby.” It’s a little too breathless but Mycroft still smiles. He smiles and Greg grins back because Mycroft makes him happy. No-one could ever change that.

Greg Lestrade is 50 years old. No-one could ever come between him and the light of his life. No-one could make Mycroft an almost.

It’s been 36 years.

The shovel thuds against the dirt. 36 years too long.

“Hello, Gregory.”

His backyard as a kid was barren. They didn’t have a lot of money growing up especially after his mom left. His dad couldn’t really hold down a job. Construction work was never steady. Their place was nice enough despite it. Greg couldn’t complain.

His father tried his best. He was a good dad.

Knuckles connect with his jaw and his face presses into the dirt. It gets in his mouth, mixing with the blood and making a disgusting cocktail. His teeth slice open his tender cheeks and tears blossom in his eyes.

He’s 14. He’s barely 14.

Red sneakers make prints in the dirt as Jack runs away. He’d been so afraid, gorgeous green eyes blown wide. A terrified little jack rabbit staring down a wolf.

Greg’s father bares his teeth is a drunken snarl, breath reeking of whiskey and rage. Greg tries not to get angry, tries not to think of Jack as a coward. It’s not his fault that Greg’s messed up. A boot connects with his ribs and a sickening crack fills the air.

Maggie is crying, choked off little sobs. She’s under a plastic table. His birthday cake is still sitting there.

_ Happy Birthday, Greg! _

Bent. Broken. Fucked up.

_ Happy fucking birthday, Greg. _

Blood drips from his nose and mixes with the dirt and his tears. His father is screaming. No son of his will ever be a fairy. No son of his will ever be a fruit. 

His lips had tasted like grapes.

It hadn’t been much, a soft press of lips. A peck that almost missed its mark. No one was supposed to see. It was supposed to be just them.

“The little white dots remind me of your freckles.” He had been right last week. Jack had smiled so wide and giggled so lovely. They had leaned in, a mimicry of what they had seen on tellie. Greg was so unsure, but Jack was so brave. Jack could do anything.

Jack had left him behind.

His father leaves him laying in the dirt, worthless and dirty. Bent. Greg decides then that a crush isn’t worth it. It’s not worth the tears streaming down his baby sister’s face. It’s not worth the broken tooth laying in the grass. It’s not worth the blood in his mouth.

It is definitely not worth the broken ribs and the black eye.

“If you ever embarrass me like this again, I won’t have a son anymore.”

Greg has never been afraid of dying before.

He learned what real fear felt like that sweltering day in June.

Greg was really angry in his late teens. He started fights, bared his teeth at the idea of authority. He refused to be the kid in the dirt ever again. If he was going to taste blood, it was going to be on his own terms. Never again would someone get away with cutting his cheek open on his teeth.

He couldn’t touch other boys softly. He couldn’t be bent, so he touched them roughly. He crashed into them with the full weight of his rage and his shame. His knuckles bleed more than they didn’t and his father seemed proud.

He isn't sure why he even wanted to make the oldman proud, but he did. God, he did.

It got worse when he got to university. He couldn’t keep all the feelings inside. Booze flowed freely and any responsibility was miles away. Maggie didn’t need him now. No-one needed him now.

Grape vodka was his favorite. He didn’t even bother to pretend it wasn’t.

He kissed girls and let his hands slid up their skirts. He pressed his teeth to their collarbones and tugged lightly at gorgeous red curls. He closed his eyes tight and played it up. He drank and fucked and threw punches until he crashed.

Catherine waltzed into his life and he let her take up most of his mind. She had perfect teeth and flawless skin and bright blonde hair. Her eyes were a sky blue and she had a shrill cackle of a laugh. She was nothing like Jack.

It was the only thing Greg liked about her.

His dad loved Catherine. Maggie hated her. Greg couldn’t give less of a shit either way.

He wakes up most nights in a cold sweat, half hungover, and terrified. Catherine is a heavy sleeper, snoring loudly and hogging the blankets. His hands are shaking and he can taste copper in his mouth.

It tastes like pennies and mud.

Bent. Broken. Disgusting. Greg is none of those things, He isn’t.  _ He can’t be. _

Jack had run away. Jack had never talked to him again. Jack had found new friends and shared sweet laughs with other boys. Jack got a girlfriend named Rebecca. She had dark brown hair and caramel eyes. She had cherry read lips and loved to skip rocks by the river.

Jack was bent. Jack was a fucked up piece of shit who couldn’t let go of the past.

Greg is nothing like him. Greg can bury his past without a second thought. Greg doesn’t need a reminder of his failures. He doesn’t need a partner with pretty red hair and a laugh like a birdsong.

His hands wrap around the handle of a shovel. The dirt is hard and dry but he works through it. He stares at the wall and digs until he’s got a nice Jack-sized grave in his mind. He buries the memories, the sugary taste of grape, and the feeling of soft lips against his. He covers the hole and tries not to let himself feel the loss. He refuses to let this feel like a loss.

He can’t quite bury the shame, so he carries it.

Catherine doesn’t seem to mind when he wakes her up with kisses trailing downward.

He doesn’t feel free anymore. He just feels heavy.

So very heavy.

Mycroft cocks his head to the side when Greg mentions that he doesn’t talk to his sister anymore. He’s curious and catlike and adorable in every way. Greg gives him a half-smile and shrugs.

“We drifted apart when I started working.”

This doesn’t seem to satiate his clever boyfriend. No, Mycroft likes information; Mycroft loves details. “What happened?”

Greg stops, hands shaking a little. The kettle is nearly done and all Greg wants is his tea. He isn’t ready to dig this up. He’s almost gotten the grass to grow over the grave. It’s been so damn long since he thought about Maggie for more than a few seconds.

He misses her. She had said she didn’t want to see him again. He had agreed.

“You know how Sherlock blamed you for a lot of shit that wasn’t your fault?”

Mycroft nods quickly, reaching out to hold Greg’s shaking hands. “Does she blame you for something, dear?”

It’s such an innocent question, so protective. It makes Greg’s heart ache. He isn’t the one who needed protecting. He was the one with a little too much to drink, with a voice that got a little too loud, with a fist built to go through drywall. Mycroft’s thumb rubs gently over his scarred knuckles. He doesn’t deserve this.

“No, Myc… I’m the one who blamed her. I was a stupid kid back then. I made a mistake.”

Mycroft doesn’t push, but his soft touches falter. Greg pulls his hand away and bites the inside of his cheek. He doesn’t want to talk about this anymore.

It was just supposed to be a visit. Just a quick visit to see his baby sister’s new place. How did it end up like this? How did he mess up so bad?

“You know what!? You’re acting just like dad!”

It stings like a punch to the jaw like the breaking of ribs. It’s his fault she’s angry. He’s been pushing his luck all night, poking fun at her not-so-new boyfriend and sipping a little too much wine. She’s finally snapped, reached her limit.

Lestrade men aren’t known for their good company. Greg is no exception.

Her boyfriend is trying to calm her down, all soft words and gentle touches. He’s got his hand wrapped around her shoulder. He’s pulling her away.

Greg is pushing her the same direction.

Teeth bared in a drunk snarl, Greg grins. “Just like dad, huh? You don’t see me beating the shit out of you at the sight of your pretty little boy toy? Old bastard finally push you into settling down, into being a good wife?”

It’s mean and venomous and tears drip down her face. She’s wearing a pale yellow dress. He always preferred to see her in pink.

He’s shoveling himself a grave in the dirt. He’s ruining his own life. He’s becoming his father. He’d say it terrifies him but he knows what being terrified feels like. This is a very different feeling.

“WE GET IT, GREG! YOU GOT IT WORSE BUT THAT DOESN’T MEAN I CAN’T BE HAPPY! NOT ALL OF US WANT TO WALLOW IN OUR OWN MISERY!”

Wallow in his misery, bury himself in the blood and the dirt. Everything is suddenly too much and tears in his little sister’s eyes push him over the edge. The soft flowing water. The terrified look in her eyes.

Pain rips through his hand when he puts it into the wall. He’s broken his knuckles. He knows because he’s done it before. He knows because he can hear them crack.

Maggie flinches and her boyfriend steps forward; he’s protecting her. He’s standing up for her just like Greg should have done when they were kids.

He was just a fucking kid. He was so afraid, so small and weak. Blood dripped down his hand and he grabbed his jacket. He had to leave. He had to go now.

His footsteps echo in the alleyway. He’s running, sprinting away from himself. Every breath he takes hurts and his hands are shaking violently. Tears sting in the corners of his eyes. There’s ghosts in lung, strangling the life out of him. He’s choking on his past.

He gasps, the night air struggling to fill his lungs. Everything hurts. Everything hurts so bad.

Mycroft is holding him, shaking him as he screams into the darkness of the bedroom. He’s awake now. He is awake and he’s safe and he isn’t the man his father wanted him to be.

He’s Gregory Lestrade, detective inspector, lover of Mycroft bloody Holmes.

Lover of red hair and freckles and kind smiles and  _ men _ .

“Darling, what’s wrong?” He’s so worried. Greg can’t answer, leaning into his partner’s chest and relaxing. Mycroft runs his fingers through his hair and waits with bated breath. Greg presses a soft kiss against his neck and lets a tear roll down his cheek.

“Just a bad dream, Myc.” He pauses and sighs. “A bad memory.”

Mycroft drags a kiss over his hair and hums deep in his throat. Greg knows it’s supposed to feel comforting, but he just feels like he’s digging himself a grave in the dirt. He feels like he’s about to be thrown to the ground. He tastes cherries and bile in the back of his throat.

“What about, doll?”

“I had my first kiss on my 14th birthday. It was also the first time my dad ever hit me.”

Greg isn’t quite ready to dig up Jack’s grave but he can pull out a few boxes. He can give Mycroft a little bit of himself. He digs his spade in the dirt and pulls out the memory of cherry popsicles and the taste of grape.

He can give that up. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



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